


the lingerie

by norio



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Panties, Sexual Content, Stockings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norio/pseuds/norio
Summary: The thing about Bokuto was the thing about Bokuto.





	

Akaashi had intellectual fetishes. A slender wrist, a shallow line of the neck, the sweet press of teeth against lips. He also had kinky fetishes. The blazing burn of shibari, the heavy weight of handcuffs, a gag that left reddened marks against the mouth. With these, Akaashi could theorize about his ideal partner. Someone who possessed the grace of a dancer, the subtlety of shifting sand, and an inclination towards rope. 

So when he told his friends that he was dating Bokuto, and they asked, Bokuto _Koutarou_ Bokuto? _Fukurodani’s_ Bokuto?, he was the most surprised of them all. For the three hours of their first date, Akaashi could only describe himself as in a state of shock. While Bokuto blushed and wiggled in his seat, Akaashi loosened his collar and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. During their first night of intimate relations, he kept his feet elevated twelve inches above his head. 

Crudely put, muscular and brash Bokuto wasn’t his type. And if Bokuto had a type—probably someone who occasionally smiled at him, patted his head, and told him, ‘good job’—then Akaashi wasn’t his type, either. But somehow, his idle daydreams of halcyon afternoons and tinkling wind chimes twisted into scrubbing at threadbare shirts until his knuckles flared red because he had told Bokuto, he had told him, he could not handle that much alcohol, but three guesses what happened, and the first three don’t count. Oh, and his friends might say Akaashi, leave the shirt-washing to Bokuto, to which Akaashi would thank them for the input and seethe inside that anybody would try to tell him how to take care of his boyfriend.

Domestic bliss aside, he tried to find some sanctity in his pornography. Dancer, sand, rope, etc. But Bokuto would wander into Akaashi’s apartment, say something like oh is that what you’re into, and then fall asleep on Akaashi’s bed. Akaashi was strong, but not strong enough to have a posh wank while his boyfriend snored like ten tons of tap-dancing trains.

Not that Akaashi had any complaints about their bedtime activities—generally, on birthdays and Valentine’s Days, they spent the day holding hands beneath tables and the night staining every flat surface in Akaashi’s apartment. The day before his birthday, Akaashi wiped his counters clean and removed his posters from his walls. When Bokuto arrived in the late afternoon, Akaashi had finished polishing his silver and his dildo collection. 

“Hey,” Bokuto said, “I got you a cake, but I ate it.”

“Thank you.” 

Bokuto dropped his blue duffel bag by the kotatsu. He already kept his toothbrush and a few smelly articles of clothing at Akaashi’s apartment, so Akaashi wasn’t surprised to see the duffel bag filled with bright snacks and DVDs. Bokuto plucked out an energetic action movie. 

“Wanna watch?”

“Do I have a choice?” 

“Sure, I brought the sequel, too.” Bokuto bent over the DVD player to slip the disc inside. His shirt rode higher on his back. Frilly black lace peeked out from beneath his track pants. 

Akaashi sat down.

Bokuto evidently had difficulty with the DVD player, giving Akaashi plenty of time to gape at the lace. No, it wasn’t simply the lace—now that Bokuto had kicked off his shoes, Akaashi could see a sheer dark nylon stretched over his feet and following along his ankles. Bokuto’s underwear of choice was usually compression shorts. They generally were solid, followed the lines of his waist, and did not have a floral pattern in thin lace on the top. Akaashi stared. 

“Got it,” Bokuto said, and retreated to the kotatsu. He pulled the futon over his lap and fumbled with the remote. Akaashi pretended to study the tips of his fingers. It was lace. He had definitely seen a delicate line of lace. Bokuto was definitely—or maybe—with the nylon on his feet, too, then maybe—Akaashi furiously stared at his television. 

“I’ll get something to drink,” he said. He stood up and fussed around in the kitchen. He even poured out two cups of juice before curiosity took hold of him and he directed his gaze at Bokuto’s figure. Bokuto had leaned forward to watch the movie. The thin black fabric rode low on his back. The pattern flourished in curves, while the background had a see-through quality. Akaashi raised his cup to his mouth and did not drink. 

“Hey, Akaashi,” Bokuto said. “Are you gonna ask or are you gonna stare all night?” He twisted around with a smirk. Akaashi kept the cup to his mouth. He did not drink. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he murmured, darting to stare at his bland kitchen wall. 

“Really,” Bokuto said lightly. “Because I get the feeling you were staring at my ass.” 

“No. No ass-staring.” Akaashi lowered his cup delicately to the counter. 

“I get the feeling,” Bokuto said, “you wanted to take a look at my panties.” 

“That’s an interesting theory,” Akaashi said levelly. He stepped towards the kotatsu and slid underneath the futon folds. Bokuto hummed and returned his attention to the television, eyes still lively. Panties. They were really panties. Akaashi knew it, but he still felt a hollow vindication about his righteousness. He would not give Bokuto the satisfaction by begging to see his panties. He had never expressed interest in them. In the catalogs, he would always flip over them to the sports section. No, the coarse fabric, transparent and frilly beneath his fingers, held no interest to him. And certainly not the way the panties must fit snugly beneath Bokuto’s loose track pants. They would curve over his hips and nestle close against his crotch. The feet covered with nylon, too, if Akaashi could dare to hope, but he wasn’t hoping, he was just sitting next to him with a mild curiosity, so he didn’t need to beg.

On the screen, the action hero dove into a barrel roll. Her face was grim. The situation was dire. 

“I want to see your panties,” Akaashi muttered.

“Couldn’t hear you. What did you say?” Bokuto grinned and leaned forward on his elbows. Akaashi would have usually denied everything and anything possible. But Bokuto grinned with an intimate slyness, and Akaashi folded his hands into his lap. 

“Panties,” Akaashi mumbled, and was unable to say more. Fortunately, this seemed to satisfy Bokuto, who laughed and turned off the television. The sudden vacuum of silence rushed into Akaashi’s ears. 

Bokuto stood up and thumbed down his pants. The sporty fabric slid down his legs, easily revealing the tight-fitting panties. A swirling flower design budded against the draping leaves. Some of the swooping vines decorated the sheer sections, transparent and a shadowed window to the skin beneath. Even when soft, a definite bulge strained the thin fabric. The tip of the cockhead was apparent through a transparent section, like an obscene reminder. Twin white silky bows had been tied towards the hip and matched the bows on the dark thigh highs. The top of the stockings had been trimmed with a defiant frilly lace, the white matching the bows. Between the stockings and the panties, there was a tantalizing sliver of skin.

“Like what you see?” Bokuto pulled up a stocking that had slightly crept down. His fingers flashed through like moving shadows while the fabric stretched thinly. He snapped them high against his thigh.

What Akaashi wanted to say was something like this was fine, everything was fine, he couldn’t think of anything that was more neutral, but what he actually said was, “Hn.” 

“They’re a little scratchy, but not bad. Wore ‘em all the way here.” Bokuto lounged on the sofa, spreading his legs wide. “The really nice ones were pricey, but I figured you’d like that. Messing up a really nice pair.” 

What Akaashi was going to say was that Bokuto was surprisingly thoughtful about his tastes and that this was fine, but what he actually said was, “Hng.” Face sternly impassive, he approached Bokuto. For lack of a better seat, he knelt down between his legs. Simply because he hadn’t been keeping very hydrated, he licked his lips. 

“What do you say, Akaashi?” Bokuto grinned, his wide shit-eating grin, and grabbed his groin. “Wanna play?” He kneaded his hand against the panties and lounged into the cushions. 

“If you insist,” Akaashi murmured, but his trembling hands were already skimming along Bokuto’s calves. The nylon stretched dangerously across the thighs, the elastic straining to hold. There was a luster to them, too. He brushed his fingers against the fabric. The lines of Bokuto’s legs stood out subtly through the shadows, carved and sculpted beneath the nylon. Every languid shift of his leg sent the shadows tumbling. It reminded him of Bokuto’s kneepads, which was a very bad thing, because he didn’t want to lock himself up into a bathroom stall and jerk off miserably every time Bokuto had a match. 

But this would be inevitable. Above the white bows of the thigh highs, the tantalizing skin peeked out. The space between panties and thigh was barely the width of Akaashi’s hand, but he needed more. The stockings were stretched thinnest on the top, the threads criss-crossing in noticeable diamonds, but they still masked the skin underneath. With great poise and dignity, Akaashi licked the visible skin. Then he did it again, and again, and then he was burying himself into Bokuto’s crotch. 

He nestled his teeth against the stripe of skin, hands busy against the nylon. The smoothness was strange against the palms of his hands and still had a strange scent, like newly ripped from the plastic packaging, though something muskier and earthlier wafted more prominently. There was something alluring about the elastic lace strapping against the thigh muscles, thick enough so Akaashi could not fully wrap his hands around the width. When Akaashi slid his hand up the outside of Bokuto’s thigh, he thought the nylon would rip and tear beneath the persistency of his fingers. He could feel the hardness beneath his fingertips, nights of jumping and running now hammered into rocky sinews and diamond tendons beneath this silky, seductive stocking. But if the stocking was attractive in holding that resting power, the muscles that could clamp down easily on Akaashi’s head and hold him still, then the panties clearly had no ability to rein the bulge. 

Akaashi’s fingers dipped into the skin past the thigh highs, leaving behind reddened trails where he grabbed the hips, and now dug into the giving flesh of Bokuto’s ass. There was hardness there, too, in those muscles, but he could still draw his nails across the skin. His knuckles brushed against the frilly edge of the mere scrap of panties. It rarely took much to get Bokuto excited, and Akaashi was rewarded with the sight of a half-hard erection pressed against the thin lace walls. The threads strained and stretched, but the erection arched and yanked the waistband away from the stomach. A small wet stain already appeared close to the tip, a dark patch. Akaashi mouthed against the coarse lace. Slightly salty, deeply wet, and enough for him to shove his hand down his own shorts and begin stroking himself in some calm and frenzied state. 

“Yeah,” Bokuto breathed, and rested his hand like a big mitt on the back of Akaashi’s head. “I was thinking—yeah, that, there—I was hoping, you’d use your pretty little mouth to suck me off.” 

His mouth was only little in comparison to Bokuto’s big mouth, was Akaashi’s smart comeback, if he wasn’t busy trying to suck dick through fabric. He could feel the lace beneath his tongue. When he pulled back, the usual prominences of the veins became subtle shadows beneath the transparent lace. The embroidery of the flowers was a thick bulge when he swept over them, damply sucking the lace into a wet blotch. He could feel the familiar shape of Bokuto’s cock, still strained. 

“Was thinking you could finger me, too. Shove the panties aside, slide your nice long fingers in me—ah—” Bokuto rolled his head back, face flushed. Akaashi skimmed his fingers down the softer balls, slid down the taint, and pressed his fingers lightly against the ring of muscles. He could feel it tighten, though he didn’t slide his finger inside, but rested against the coarse lace. His nose was still pressed against Bokuto, inhaling his scent, feeling the stockings rub against his ears when Bokuto rolled back in languid pleasure. 

“Do you wanna fuck me, Akaashi?” Bokuto’s hand pulled at his hair. “Fuck me nice and open? Use me like a good little fucktoy?” Akaashi scrambled to breathe, chest heaving while he licked and sucked. He pulled down the lace waistband and the erection sprang out, shiny and slick and flushed. Akaashi wrapped his mouth around the tip. The sensation, unrestricted by the panties, flooded into his mouth. He dragged the heavy cockhead across the roof of his mouth, the precum dripping in thick droplets into his throat, the faint saltiness running across his tongue. Without the covering panties, he could swallow down the smooth head, following the faint veins, going down to the base and the thick gray hair. 

“Yeah. Yeah,” Bokuto said, voice hitching, “or maybe you want me to fuck you, Akaashi—raw and hard—you’d take me, wouldn’t you, you’d be begging for my dick—” And Akaashi most certainly didn’t let out a loud groan, vibrating deep in his throat, and palm himself more desperately for friction against his smooth shorts. He had wrapped his hand around the base of Bokuto’s cock, but the t-shirt was riding up in every swift pump, and Bokuto grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up to his own mouth and that simply wasn’t fair, Akaashi wasn’t prepared to be breathing fast through his nose and open his eyes and see the mountain of abs before his face. 

Now that Bokuto had self-muffled himself, soft cotton shirt in his mouth, he could only growl in his throat. Bokuto’s fingers gripped his head tightly and wound into his hair. The taste of cock was even fuller in Akaashi’s mouth, and he could feel it twitch in his mouth when he released his own breathy smooth groans. He parted his mouth and dragged his tongue along the underside, trying to swallow him up, swallow the way the sharp lines of Bokuto’s hips slanted down into the tiny little scrap of panties that still curved and clutched to the curve of his balls. The tight fabric left behind small rubbed markings on the skin. 

He’d torn some small holes into the stockings, the nylon now laddered in his fingertips, small ovals opening up into windows of skin and tensing muscles. But the elastic bands of the thigh highs still held, and there was such stark emphasis on the skin above. The stockings were still splitting, giving Bokuto a ravished look, and it wasn’t like Akaashi was into that, except that he had pulled himself out of his shorts for better leverage and he was jerking himself off at high speed. There was the delicate lace and the hard thighs, thick and solid and pressed against his head. His jaw was growing tired, but he couldn’t think of anything better than to polish Bokuto’s dick spit-shiny clean with his mouth. 

Akaashi brought a hand to slip beneath the panties, his other still wrapped like a tenuous fist around Bokuto’s cock. He had some technique in slipping his tongue over the slit and rubbing his hand lightly against the soft balls, but he wasn’t prepared for the way Bokuto jerked his hips into his mouth and groaned loudly above him and when Akaashi glanced up, surprised, he could see Bokuto leaning back on the head of the couch with his eyes scrunched closed and hair tussled and his cheeks flushed red and the wrinkles of his nose all crammed together and his chest was heaving in short breaths and there was such weight to his cock and his thighs and the flimsy framing of the panties and Akaashi scrambled to grip the stockings and bent his head and came in a short burst and still pressed tight against the coarse fabric. 

He felt the shirt fall close to his hand and Bokuto murmur, “Akaashi?” in his rough, wondering voice, but Akaashi was burying his face into Bokuto’s thigh and trying not to think about how he just blew his load while humping his furniture like he was needy and desperate for any sort of touch, except he was, and he kept his eyes closed while Bokuto petted his head in rough strokes. He could still feel warm waves of some sort of pleasure crashing into him, and he tried not to look like he had sobbed into torn thigh highs when he finally brought his face up again. 

“You look nice,” he said smoothly, hair slick across his forehead. He shoved Bokuto’s shirt, back to his mouth, to try and keep some sort of clothing clean between them. He eased his hand over the skin, pumping with mildness and a strange fascination to see Bokuto come in small spurts across his chest. It wasn’t like he had a boyfriend fetish, but maybe he watched Bokuto’s face a little too long when he looked wrecked and utterly sex-sated, breathing in gulping breaths, legs spread out and panties darkened and stained with spit and come, holes in his long stockings, hair rucked up, and looking like he couldn’t possibly speak another word. And then he opened his eyes, swiped a finger across the come, and grinned devilishly at Akaashi, and Akaashi thought he might as well file this away into his wank bank of furiously masturbating in his shower, might as well, if Bokuto was going to grin like that, might as well, not that he wanted to, but might as well.

“You liked it, right?” Bokuto stroked his hair. Even though Akaashi’s shorts stuck and clung to his crotch, he still settled down and rested his head on Bokuto’s thigh. 

“I have no strong feelings about the matter,” he said, staring at the ruined panties.

A comedy panel show played on his television. Bokuto had dressed in some soft gym pants. He’d flopped down to peek at the show, arm curled underneath his head, with his feet under the futon. Akaashi dried his hair and sat behind him. 

“I have some apples,” Akaashi said.

“Make ‘em into rabbits for me,” Bokuto said, and Akaashi toed his side. 

“Have I.” Akaashi worked his bottom lip while Bokuto wailed about his newfound injury. “Have I expressed interest in lingerie, before.” 

“No,” Bokuto said, hands stretched across his lap. “But I was passing by this store, and there were all these fancy ones—like blue silk, that was nice, or the white ones with the satin, and the bras and the corsets and I bought ‘em because I figured it’d be a nice birthday present. And I thought, to myself, not out loud in the store, but I thought it’d be nice if I’d try out something new with you. It makes it funner.” 

“Did you bring—all of them?” Akaashi settled his fingers across his knees. 

“Well, yeah. But it’s not your birthday yet.” Bokuto hummed, eyes still focused on the television. “It’s in a couple days, right?” 

And Akaashi was going to say something like yes, that’s right, even though it wasn’t, if only to spare Bokuto the trouble. Or he was going to say, no, it was today, but that’s fine, because it was. But he found himself straddling Bokuto’s lap and pushing up his shirt and saying, “It’s actually my birthday—today—so I deserve a present—lots of presents—” because it wasn’t like he had a fetish, or a kink, or any sort of lustful desire, except he was lying and he did and he was going to enjoy every second of it.


End file.
